Chaotic Good | Psycho Cale

Chaotic Good

"Well, ain't this a mess."

The words hung in the air, cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the storage room. What had once been a space for storing old furniture and forgotten relics now resembled a slaughterhouse. The scent of blood was overwhelming, the once-sturdy wooden crates now splintered and stained with crimson, their contents scattered across the floor in a chaotic display. Bodies—a nobble and his two minions—lay strewn about, their lifeless forms twisted and broken, victims of a violent and one-sided confrontation.

The sole culprit, his red hair a stark contrast against the darkness of the room, stood in the center of the carnage. His expression was one of cold detachment, though a hint of satisfaction lingered in the corners of his mouth. He admired his handiwork with a twisted sense of pride, his knife still dripping with the blood of those who had foolishly crossed his path.

He'd been admiring the scene like an artist observing his latest masterpiece when that familiar voice interrupted him.

Behind him, emerging from the shadows of the dimly lit room, was Alver Crossman. The future leader of the Rowoon Kingdom, Alver's face was a study of barely concealed exasperation as he surveyed the wreckage before him. His sharp eyes took in every detail—the blood-soaked floor, the shattered crates, the bodies—and he couldn't help but let out a sigh.

"Quite a feat you have here, Cale," Alver hummed, his tone heavy with disapproval. He then stepped closer, careful not to disturb the lifeless bodies that littered the floor.

The one addressed, his lips curled into a wry smile at the sight of his sworn brother. "Ah, hyung~ Fancy meeting you here. Thought you'd be busy dealing with those senile old men?"

Alver's expression tightened, his distaste for the situation evident.

"One of them just so happened to disappear, you see? I'm here to find out what happened to him." His tone was clipped, barely masking the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

Cale let out a low, dark chuckle, the sound echoing eerily in the confined space. "I'm just taking one for the team. He admitted that he was about to cause chaos—how could I resist having a little fun with that taunt? Cheeky bastard, wasn't he?" His eyes gleamed with a mischievous light as he spoke, clearly enjoying the discomfort his actions were causing the crown prince.

Alver's gaze flicked to the bloodied knife in Cale's hand, his mouth pulling into a grim line. "Can't you at least keep the place clean? Why must you create a trail of bodies wherever you go, huh?"

Cale shrugged, unfazed by the accusation. "It's not like things wouldn't be spotless once I leave, would they? Let me have my fun in peace, jeez."

Alver shook his head, knowing full well that Cale had a point. No matter the destruction Cale left in his wake, there were always those who would rush to clean up the mess—the dragons, the heroes, the Henituse household, and yes, even Alver himself. In the end, it didn't matter how messy things got, because Cale always had someone to cover for him.

"Crazy son of a bitch."

Cale's response was immediate, his tone dripping with mock politeness as he offered an exaggerated curtsy. "Why, thank you, Your Highness. I aim to entertain."

Alver Crossman couldn't quite understand how he managed to feel even a hint of fondness for the psychopath standing before him, especially when Cale wasn't even genuine in his show of deference. But there it was, that inexplicable attachment. Maybe it was because, despite the twisted nature of Cale's methods, he always ended up solving the problems he created—even if those solutions caused Alver headaches that lasted for days. He wasn't sure if becoming desensitized to this madness was a blessing or a curse, but since it had already happened, and since there was no escaping their bond without severe consequences, Alver decided it was probably for the best.